The Theater Cats
by zoey21q
Summary: Gus is a wise old cat, and in his decline, he has become a well of knowledge for younger cats wishing to follow in his footsteps, and though not everyone needs the exact same kind of help, everyone could do with a good dose of Gus!


**Author's Note:**** Yay! My second FanFic, and my first author's note! Ok, I don't know if anyone reading this has read my other story, and I don't want to seem desperate for viewers, but…Please! If you like this one, please read my other! It's not as emotion packed as my other stories, including my other FanFic, but I hope it's good enough for this great website. I'm new to having my work online, and it's exciting, except for the fact that I only got one review! Speaking of, my most sincere thanks to my one reviewer, it really did mean a lot to me. Please review! :-D**

***Please Note (Also)*****:I wrote this with a very clear picture in my mind, and though I wish I could read this to everyone so you'd know exactly how I always want it to sound, I can't. So, keeping that in mind, please understand that I wrote this picturing cats. Like, real cats. With that, I wish you good reading, and a great day. **

The air smelled like dust and paper, like an old book. The floor was sticky where it wasn't covered in carpeting, and where it was, there were holes worn through, and patches of dirt where there was more traffic than other places. The seats, 412 after the addition and the new handicapped seating, were old for the most part, but very comfortable. He should know. He had at, one point or another, sat in every one of them. He had probably sat in every nook and cranny of the entire theatre. He had sat down in the orchestra pit, and atop both of the lighting ladders. He had walked back and forth over the catwalk, checking the security of each light before shows, just to make sure the theatre had hired a trustworthy lighter. He had sat in the sound booth, next to hundreds of directors, producers, curious actors, and the occasional wondering patron.

But he had also sat, well, stood most often, center stage. When the lights shown down on him, he felt at home. When the curtain rose, and the stage lights blinded him to everyone but the first row, he was blind to the world outside of his role. When the audience clapped, as restrained and proper as it was, to him it felt like a million roaring fans. Everything about being on that stage felt right…But that was a long time ago.

Gus thought about that, like he did every night after the theater owner had filled his bowl with food and locked all of the building's doors. The theater was dark and quiet except for his breathing, spiked with the occasional cough. He could still see very well in through the almost pitch black room, but took his time climbing the stairs onto the stage. His paws shook, and he knew they probably would until the day he died, but as long as he kept weight on them, it was tolerable. He sat down at the very center of the stage, and settled himself comfortably.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small brown mouse scurrying around the curtains hanging off the right of the stage. Gus rolled his eyes, and flattened his ears, letting out a terrible hiss, but knew there was nothing he could have done to stop it if he had wanted to. Before he could even begin to think of standing up, the little rodent saw him, and ran off screaming at the top of its little lungs.

_Poor thing._ Gus thought, laughing to himself. He stretched a little then, hearing all of his joints pop one by one from his shoulders down to the tips of his fingers, and pulled his stiff tail around to his side. He sighed contently and out his head down to rest.

He must have fallen asleep, because one needs to be asleep, to be woken up.

_ "Gus!"_ A voice whispered—loudly.

Gus jolted awake, hearing his neck crack as he snapped it up to quickly. Someone had called his name. He listened closely, swiveling his ears left and right, but couldn't locate the origin of the voice, as a small echo still bounced around the walls.

"_Gus! Gus where are you? Please answer me, Gus!"_

All of a sudden, the curtains stage left shuddered. "Who's there?—_cough_—Make yourself known!" His weak voice sounded one hundred times louder and even intimidating, as it shook off the walls.

"_Gus! _Oh thank Heaviside! Gus!" A small black cat ran out of the shadows ad towards Gus, but missed completely in the dark. "Gus? Where'd you go?"

"Open your eyes, son." Gus sighed and started to get up, which could sometimes take a while.

"What do you mean?" The little cat rubbed his eyes and blinked a lot, still desperately searching for his old friend.

"I said," Gus groaned as he finally managed to stabilize himself onto all four of his feet. "Open your _eyes_."

The young tom raised his left eyebrow and stared, at the pile of rope he thought was Gus, still not completely understanding what the other wanted.

"Mistofelees," Gus said with a sigh, "Look up." Merely three feet above his little black head was a light switch, painted in glow and the dark green.

"Can you—?" And before Gus could finish the sentence, Mistofelees had, in one bound, jumped straight off the ground and flicked the switch with his paw. In seconds every light in the theater came on. Gus smiled, surveying his home as if to say, 'yes, this is all mine.' Mistofelees put his paws over his face and whimpered a little, rubbing his eyes. "Ah, get over yourself, son." Gus called behind him as he stalked across the stage slowly, quivering a little, as always. "What are you doing here, anyways?" He asked as he stepped down onto the first stair off the stage. He was headed for the very back of the theater, where, though, he hadn't used it in years, there was a small opening in the wall. He suspected that's where the mouse had come from, and probably Mistofelees, too.

"Uh, I snuck in. Right through the front door. I'm so sorry! Am I gonna get you in trouble? Am I gonna get in trouble? Oh, no! What if Munkustrap finds out?" Mistofelees followed Gus down the stairs, and began to gasp. "What if Old D. finds out? I'm gonna be dead! They're gonna kill me! I snuck into the theater! I hid under the seats all day! I could have scared someone! A million other things could have happened! I disturbed Gus! If I had—!" Gus had caught up to him at the bottom of the steps, and held a trembling paw to his mouth.

"Stop talking please. This is a sacred place. Respect it. Respect the stage, and respect one who once inhabited that stage, on his way out." Gus wobbled on towards the back of the building, but stopped when Mistofelees started to haw. "Yes?" Gus stopped and turned his head towards his stuttering companion.

"That's sorta kinda what I wanted to talk to you about." He bit his lip and stared at the stage.

"Oh?" Gus sat and motioned his friend to come over to him. Mistofelees obeyed the silent command.

"You know, Gus, I'm a performer…but…that's all I'm ever going to be…without some help." He looked up to Gus, who, even hunched over in old age, was a bit taller than him. "Specifically, from you."

"Hmm." Gus said, and continued to walk towards the door.

"'Hmm?'" Mistofelees stood. "Is that it?" He stepped to walk next to him. "I ask you to share your timeless wisdom with me, and all you have to say is, 'Hmm?'" He paused and grumbled a little.

Gus stopped, too. "Well, no, I suppose not." He sat, and once again, nodded at the floor next to him. "Hmm, I suppose not…" He scratched behind his ear and stared into space.

After I minute of silence sitting next to Gus, who almost appeared to be asleep with his eyes open, Mistofelees coughed. "Um, so what do you say?" Gus seemed startled when he heard the voice, but quickly regrouped himself.

"Well, what exactly is it you want?" Gus asked. This took Mistofelees by surprise.

"Well…I…I mean…You always…And the w—" Gus stopped him.

"Stop. I'll _give_ you the first tip." He stood up and began to walk. Mistofelees followed. "Don't talk unless you know what you're going to say…unless you're doing improvisational acting…" Gus began to trail off. "…and Heaviside knows my opinion on improvisational acting…unless…well…that one time…" He stopped talking completely and focused on getting to the top of the steps and onto the stage. Suddenly, he spoke out louder and clearer than Mistofelees had would have thought he was able to. "But all of that is beside the point!" Mistofelees' eyes widened as Gus continued to speak. "You asked for my help, and I asked you to be specific." Gus sauntered to his original spot in the center of the stage. "Here." He nodded. In seconds Mistofelees was sitting ready and alert next to him. "Now, over there, in the same bank of lights you hit the first time, there is one painted red. Turn it on, please." Mistofelees ran over and jumped at the switch. The house lights dimmed, and a single spotlight made a circle around Gus, with him right in the middle. "Come back here." Gus said plainly. In three bounds, the young tom made it back across the stage and sat with his paws on the very edge of the circle, waiting for the next command. "What do you do Mistofelees?"

"Uh…Gus…uh, sir?" He s furrowed his brow and looked up to the aged cat, now glowing with golden, artificial light.

"You said you perform. What. Do. You. Do?" Gus clarified.

"Um…I…" He stuttered.

"Spit it out, son!" His burst seemed to make the walls of the building shake.

"Magic, sir!" He shouted, but his voice seemed nothing more than a whisper compared to Gus'.

"Good." Gus said, without looking towards his new student.

"Good?" Mistofelees relaxed a little.

"Yes, good. You know what you do. You know what you want my help with." He shifted out of the spotlight, inch by inch, until the light shone on nothing but the black, dusty stage. "Sit." Gus said.

"Excuse me, sir?" Mistofelees asked, staring at Gus. Gus wore no expression; he just stood staring at the Mistofelees.

"Sit." Gus was answered again with a look of complete confusion. He sighed. "Sit in the light, and look straight ahead towards your audience." Mistofelees, now with a look of scared comprehension, followed his instruction and took a seat under the light. It was hot on his black fur, but it felt right. He smiled and let his mid wander, filling the seats with his friends and family.

"Now," Gus said pulling him back to the real world. "How do you command the stage?"

"Uh…I usually start by blowing something up." He smiled cheekily.

"No." Gus just said. Mistofelees' grin was immediately wiped from his face. "_That_ is how you get their attention. How do you command the stage? Say you're number forty-nine in a line up of fifty magicians that look like you, talk like you, and perform the same tricks. What do you do to make yourself…?" He trailed off.

"Uh, Gus, sir?" Mistofelees looked at him.

"I'm sorry, can't quite come up with the words. You're not playing a part, you're being you. I don't know how to tell you how to get into the character of yourself…" His voice faded into mumbling again.

Mistofelees stared with his mentor, thinking, presumably about the same thing. _"…the character of yourself…" _It suddenly hit him. "I have a stage name!" He screamed.

"Oh?" Gus raised his eyebrows and looked at his friend. "Do tell!" He looked excited.

"Uh…it's kinda bad. I mean, It's not really a whole new name, it's just kinda…I guess a little…added something…but it's not like a whole new character…it's kinda…" Mistofelees shifted and trailed off.

"It's kind of what?" Gus glared at him.

"It's silly. It's just 'magic' in front of my name!" He bit his lips and grumbled to himself

"Not silly." Gus stood up and wandered over to the edge of the stage, sitting with his tail hanging off and facing Mistofelees.

"Not…silly?" Mistofelees gulped.

"Not silly. Have you ever read _A Midsummer Night's Dream?"_

"No, sir."

"It's a Shakespeare. I played a man named Bottom once in a 1973 production of that play. You're names not silly." He yawned, checking the clock on the wall. "Darn youth…" He leaned back precariously on his haunches, and seemed more comfortable that way than he had all night. He lifted his chin and cracked his neck. "Now, you do what, exactly? Card tricks, slight of hands…" He laughed a little. "Cut anyone in half lately?"

"No…" Mistofelees furrowed his brow and stared at his paws.

"Well, then, what do you do! I swear, it's like I have to fish for this information! Open up, son, let it out! You're in a safe place. It's just you, me, and that darn mouse! Speaking of which, when you're through here 'demonstrating,' it would be quite a favor if—"

"It's real magic!" Mistofelees screamed, driven almost mad by Gus' babbling. "I do _real _magic! I am _**The**__Magical_ _Mr. Mistofelees!_ It's not slight of hand! I don't do card tricks! I never cut anyone in half!" He stopped to catch his breath. "Not on purpose..." He finished, panting.

"Do it." Gus commanded, swaying a little as he spoke, but still holding himself in a very dignified manor.

"—What?" Mistofelees asked, taken aback by Gus' request.

"What's so hard to understand? Like I was saying, you aren't receptive enough. I tell you to look, it takes you ten minutes to figure out what you're looking at; I tell you to do, and you look at me like I'm speaking Latin! Am I speaking Latin? Because I know Latin, so tell me if I'm speaking anything other than English." Mistofelees sat, still bathed in the glow of the spotlight, growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. "I said, 'do it!'"

Mistofelees jumped, but gathered himself quickly and started to concentrate. Gus smiled as Mistofelees furrowed his brow and took a deep breath. He began to rub his paws together, and stared intently at his tutor, quivering in his spot on the edge of the stage. In a flash of light and a low, quiet _bang, _Gus had disappeared.

Mistofelees panicked. He jumped up and swiveled his head around, searching for the elder cat that had, just seconds ago, been sitting right in front of him. "Gus!" He yelled. "Gus, where are you?" He ran off the stage and started to root through the curtains off stage right. "Gus!" He yelled again. He was panting, searching desperately for his friend. The last time he had tried to move someone, they had ended up not only _not_ where Mistofelees had wanted them, but rather, exactly where he had not wanted them. Plato thanked him for weeks after he had popped Victoria into his den during one of Mistofelees' late night training sessions. For all he knew, Gus could be hanging from the gutters by his tail. "Gus!" He shouted one more time.

"Woohoo!" A shout came from the other side of the stage.

"Gus?" He ran towards the scream, but the lights were dim outside of the spotlight and he could barely see.

"I'm over here!" He heard a shout, followed by hoarse laughter, coming from a dark corner.

Soon, Mistofelees found Gus, curled up in a basket, sitting in the dark laughing hysterically. "Gus," Mistofelees panted, "Gus, are you okay?"

"I've never been better! That was fantastic!" he rolled sluggishly out of his basket and moved towards the stage once again. "I honestly don't know what you want my help with, if that doesn't entertain someone, I don't know what will!"

"But, but, but…I, I, I…Gus!" He shouted as the cat moved towards the steps. "I don't just want to entertain someone! I want someone to leave my shows really taking something with them! I want to be like you! I've seen you make the hardest people I know cry! I have no way to do that. I do what I do, and people leave. That's the end of the story. That's why I came here in the first place. I didn't need help with my magic; I need help with my performance. I want to connect to my audience like you do."

Gus paused and sighed. He walked back to the spotlight and motioned for Mistofelees to come to him. Still panting, Mistofelees ran over to Gus and waited for what was to happen next. Gus said, "Sit on the edge of the stage, like I was." Mistofelees obeyed. When he had settled, Gus began to speak. "You, my friend, are not in the business where someone, how did you put it? 'Connecting?' Your profession is not one where satisfaction should come from a connection after the performance. Your satisfaction should come instantly. When you do your magic tr—excuse me, I now know they're not tricks—when you perform, you should see your audience laugh and smile and be as excited as I was just a moment ago, and _that_, not a deep, abstract, profound…'Connection,' should be what strikes the chord for you. We do very different things, Mistofelees; I want to make that clear. In short, as good as I am, I can't fix what's not broken." He stared at Mistofelees, and smiled a wise, knowledgeable smile. "Do you understand, son?"

Mistofelees was dumbstruck. He had come seeking advice, and expected it would come in the form of Victorian era drills and in-your-face lectures. He could not have been more wrong. Gus had told him no stories of his golden days laced with lessons, or anecdotes full of mistakes of his youth, but he had none the less been taught a very important lesson: He didn't need to change. Everyday, he made people laugh, and that was enough, he realized just then, for him now.

"Gus?' He asked, as he made his way towards his grinning mentor.

"Yes, son?" Gus replied, his eyes closed, absorbing in the warmth of the spotlight once again.

"I—" Mistofelees began, Gus opening one eye. "Thanks." Gus closed his eyes again and smiled contently. Mistofelees began to leave.

"Wait." Gus said quietly.

"Yes?" Mistofelees turned over his shoulder.

"The lights, please." Mistofelees obeyed, and left out the back door he had sniffed out while looking for Gus earlier.

The theater, dark, empty, and silent again, was peaceful. Gus laid down and sighed, coughing a little. Everything was as it should be: the theater was his again, and yet another young cat had found their place in life thanks to him. He cracked his neck, and set it down to sleep…ahh…

_Squeak._ Gus lifted his head and looked towards the curtains hanging stage left. _Squeak._ The little brown mouse was dibbling on a piece of plywood. "Damn…" He laid his head down, and promptly fell asleep once again, in his big, dark, musty home.

I hoped you enjoyed this! Have a great day, and please review!


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